


Sixty-Five Roses

by roseluu (rowanscrown)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Catholic Guilt, Hallucinations, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-12 17:57:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11167083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowanscrown/pseuds/roseluu
Summary: The thorns are closing around his heart. Soon, he'll bleed too much.





	1. Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not a dream.

It’s a curious feeling, coming to and unknowing. The scent of soil is rich. The back of his neck prickles. Something wet drizzles over the bridge of his nose. A rattling pressure in his chest. He can’t swallow.

There’s screaming.

“– away! Don’t touch him! I’ll kill you! I swear I will!”

It’s blurry when he pulls his eyes open. A sliver of dark blue, like a silhouette at the bottom of the ocean. Dirt sinks underneath his fingernails.

“–coming! The fucker deserved it! Disgusting little–”

“Don’t–no!”

His neck snaps taut.

“God! Oh God! He’s–no, let me go! Lovi, come here, come here. Oh, please, _please_ , let me go. I don’t want to hurt you!”

“I said grab him! Now!”

“Bring–”

 “–me! Take me, please! Please, please just take–”

His body leaves the ground.

*

“It’s a beautiful evening, isn’t it?”

Herakles nods. Kiku’s lips are poised in a small frown, more than usual, and a crease settles between his brows.

“Troubled?” Herakles asks.

Kiku’s rests his hands in his lap. “Somewhat.”

“I’ll listen.”

“I know,” Kiku says, like he’s reminding himself. He looks off through the rocking trees. “I think I’m going to take a leave to Italy tomorrow.”

Herakles blinks. “Why is that?”

“To visit Feliciano.” He pauses. “Alfred phoned me last night,” he says. “It was concerning.”

“What was said?”

“I’m not exactly certain...” Kiku taps a small rhythm against his knees. “Something has happened.”

Herakles sets a careful hand on his shoulder. “Is Feliciano okay?”

“Hm? Oh, yes, yes.” Kiku pats his knuckles. “Alfred can be very…vague? Well, not vague, per say, but rather has the tendency to vastly exaggerate. I believe Feliciano’s brother and Spain are in a fight? Or, started a fight? One of those.” He sighs. “Alfred uses too much of his slang. But, I must give Feliciano moral support. Germany is somewhat…lacking, in that category of affection.”

Herakles chuckles.

“Please don’t tell him I said that.”

“I won’t,” he says. “And I think giving your regards in person is a good idea.”

Kiku nods. “Even if it has to do with Romano. Maybe I will be of some help. I just hope their relationship is okay. They are good people looking for only good in each other.”

“Every couple quarrels.”

*

“–are you doing? Set him–”

“Lovi, please wake up. Lovi, please, I need you to stay awake.”

A finger soothes over his brow.

“Let us pray.”

“No, no, stop, please, please. He’s not – we’re not–”

“Someone shut him up!”

“–okay, Lovi, it’s okay, I’m here–”

*

Adrenaline cartwheels his heart into his throat, limbs spurring to life, as soon as nails dig the slightest bit into his shoulders. He smashes the heel of his fist into something hard, and a pained shout echoes through his bedroom, along with a crash on the floorboards.

He flicks the lamp on, blinking at Gilbert nursing his head on the floor. He sneers, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, you idiot? I could’ve killed you!”

Gilbert fumbles to get to his feet. “We need to go.”

Ludwig presses his fists to his eyes, sighing, “Gilbert, it’s the middle of the night. There’s nowhere to go.”

“It’s Feli.”

This catches his attention. “What?”

“Something’s wrong.”

*

There’s a man.

The room shrouded by a fire flickering over the dull wallpaper. He’s kneeling, chin to his chest, staring at the single cloth placed on the carpet.

“Where am I?” he asks.

The man doesn’t say a word. Slowly, the man unfurls his hands. A single needle and a spool of black thread lay on his palm, and his arm whispers through the air as he rolls them on the cloth.

“You have a choice,” the man says.

“A choice for what?”

“To take the pain from who you love.”

He looks to the needle and thread. “From who I love?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t love anyone.”

“We both know that is untrue.”

He plants his hands on the worn carpet. A steady thrum beats behind his eyes. “What the hell do you want from me?”

“Sow your mouth shut.”

He falls silent, gazes down at the needle. “I don’t think he wants it gone.”

Even though he can’t see it, the man smiles.

*

“–okay, it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s–”

He’s shaking. Frozen pain rolls underneath his skin like icy knives, and suddenly he’s in the air, floating, floating–

“Lovino. I need you to stay awake. Please wake up. It’s going to hurt a bit, but you must wake up. Please, Lovino.”

Lovino opens his eyes. Everything is suddenly hot. It hurts so much he can’t _see_.

A heavy clap, and his back hits leather.

 “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Get him–”

“–stomach is–”

“–fuck were you–”

“–his head, lift his head–”

“–put pressure–”

Sobbing.

“–happened? Did you just let–”

“–to keep him awake! I know it’s–”

“–n’t, not the hospital, not the–”

“He wouldn’t want–”

Hands yank his hair until he feels stickiness pooling around his legs.

“I’ll snap your neck if you–”

“–on, Feli don’t!”

“Quiet! He’s t-talking! What’re you trying to say?”

“–trust ‘Toni–”

“I think he’s–”

“He’s praying.”

*

“There’s hardly anything to tell. There’s nothing really to tell. I mean, it was such a long time ago, and I’m sure he hadn’t meant anything by it. Is it _that_ –”

*

“–ovi, look at me. Keep your–”

“‘Toni, you need to answer me. Tell me–”

He fights for air while fingertips tug at his throat.

“Ludwig? Ludwig. Come on. What are–”

Blue above the clouds, near the birds. Countless cities. His lips shudder, and he gulps in air. Thank _God_.

“Listen to me.” Deep, addled, unnerved. “Listen to me.”

He spits blood into his face, and the fingertips return.

Ludwig says, “Pull through, or Feliciano will kill both of us.”

The world jounces, and he’s screaming, kicking the grip around his ankle, thrashing and crying until a snap arches his back.

“–okay, it’s–”

“–out, he’s passing out–”

“–something’s not _right_ , Ludwig.”

“Oh, God.”

*

And, suddenly, he remembers.


	2. Repudiation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He can't sleep.

There’s a river nearly a mile from Lovino’s townhouse. During the summer, he strolls through the thin greenery, sometimes resting on a rock above the water, or balancing on thick branches skimming across the bank. It’d look strange to any passerby, but it’s something that reminds him of his early years. Antonio discovers this on a quiet day of him brooding over paperwork, and Lovino grudgingly allows him to join him on his weekly walks.

Antonio makes his enjoyment known by planting carnation and lily seeds in the murky soil that conjures a measly bloom every few years. Every few _centuries_ it seems like now. There’s just enough sun for the flowers to bloom, and the hundreds of pictures Antonio takes will haunt Lovino for a long while, too.

“What about this one?” Antonio plucks the stem of a squill, much smaller compared to the healthy bunch surrounding it. It’s lighter in the middle, extending into a dark blue-violet. Antonio holds the flower out to him.

“What?” He bats it away. “It’s too young to pick.”

Antonio’s laugh prances along the stream. A blue bird’s wings flutter through a canopy of leaves. “I think you’d look cute if you wore it, Lovi.”

Lovino swats the flower again. “How many times do I have to tell you: men don’t like being called ‘cute.’”

“Your brother does,” Antonio says.

“My point exactly.”

Antonio frowns. A thin sheet of sweat glistens under his collar, and his hair is extra curly from the humidity, splaying out in wiry strands.

It must be the sun sinking Lovino’s shoulders. “Just this once.”

Antonio’s smiles so bright it's sickening. He brushes Lovino’s bangs to the side and slides the flower’s stem into the crook of his ear. Lovino kicks up sun-bleached pebbles.

“There we go.” Antonio steps back and gives him a long look and smiles. “You look cute.”

“Call me that again. I dare you.”

Antonio’s fingers thread through his hair. Their chests are flush, and his forehead is becoming dewy from extra body heat.

“You smell good,” Antonio says, nose wandering over his hairline. “Like the candles in the dining room. The spicy ones.”

He rolls his eyes, moving his entire head to make sure Antonio knows. “I’m not going to walk around smelling like some rotting corpse.”

Antonio tugs his neck forward until he’s pressed against his shoulder. The only sound is the rolling stream, the scurry of squirrels, and soft breathing cooling the cloth of his shirt. Antonio kisses him. When Lovino pulls away, Antonio holds his hips.

“Don’t look so happy,” Lovino says haughtily.

Antonio says, “I’m happy when you let me kiss you.”

“Yeah, well, no more kissing bullshit.”

“Then I’ll wait,” Antonio, again, smiles.

*

“–the table–”

“–aid and grab–”

“Stop! ‘Toni, stop. He’s–”

“–think I killed–”

“–still bleeding. It won’t–”

“–eli, take Toni out of–”

“–to hurt–”

“You’ll kill–”

“–sorry. Forgive me.”

*

“You are banished from his church.”

Lovino stares at the robe flowing above the carpet.

“Heed your confession and leave. You are no longer welcome here.”

He swallows. The words are grated, choppy, and spill from his lips: “But, father, I request a penance. I…I can fix this. I swear it.”

“It will not be tolerated at a holy sanctuary.”

Lovino digs his nails into his palms.

“Do not cry, Lovino. You are still loved.”

He presses his palms to the sockets of his eyes and says, “I can fix this. I promise. He has no hold over me.”

“You can’t fix something that’s unable to be fixed. I am sorry, but you are to leave and not return.”

*

Sour lemon juice stings his tongue, and garlic cloves flood his eyes with tears. The market bustles with the clacking of shoes and the ankle-length dresses. Lovino isn’t quite sure where to look.

Antonio has been clutching his hand for so long it’s slick with sweat. When Lovino manages to slip away fast enough, Antonio snatches it back or makes a public display of teary eyes, gaining sympathy from girls Lovino had been trying to flirt with.

“We’re out of zucchini,” Antonio says and dances on his heels as he pauses in front of a stand. The woman behind the counter greets Antonio in Spanish, and Lovino takes his opening with grace, tugging his hand away and shuffling through a group of people. Antonio doesn’t notice.

*

“I’m sorry. We just can’t allow you here.”

“But, why not? _Everyone_ is allowed. I don’t see why I’m any different.”

“Mr. Vargas.” The woman fists her wool sweater, wrapping her other hand around the doorknob. “Children attend here. Could you imagine what they would think? What their _parents_ would think?”

“Think about _what_?”

“We don’t allow–” She stops, lowering her voice as she glance side-to-side. “We don’t allow homosexuals here. It’s inappropriate.”

“I’m _not_ a homosexual.” He stabs the toes of his boots into the grass. “I don’t know where you got the idea!”

“Everyone knows, Mr. Vargas,” she says. “I don’t know if you’re uninformed, sir, but people like you don’t come around here. It’s _scandalous_. If I let you attend, we’ll lose members, and we can’t afford that right now. We’re tied with money, and either way parents would be horrified! They don’t want their children exposed! I’m going to have to ask for forgiveness for even letting you set one foot in here!”

Wind whistles through the trees. The woman breathes through her nose, and Lovino steps back as she straightens, smoothing down her sweater. “I’m sorry, Mr. Vargas, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave. And don’t bother trying anymore. Maybe up North. Have a nice day.”

She swings the door closed.

*

“–sleep–”

“–ust leave–”

“–Gil, I’m–”

“–don’t say–”

“–bleeding–”

*

“It’s awfully selfish to want him to leave you.”

*

The sun is setting when Feliciano plops himself on the bench with a sharp clatter, and Lovino’s doze is broken.

“Feli, Jesus, you nearly gave me a stroke!”

Feliciano holds back giggles. “I was checking to see if you were alive. You looked so peaceful, I thought you dead!”

“I’m not dead.” He folds his hands on his stomach, leaning back into the rickety bench–so old the paint is chipping–and tries to settle back into his previous position while his brother wriggles next to him. Lovino sighs.

“Hey, Lovino?”

He groans, pops an eye open. Feliciano’s spine is erect, hands resting in his lap, pert nose wrinkled.

“Um, well…” Feliciano’s needle-straight arms shift in a way he’s clearly trying to act casual. “I want…to ask you something.”

Lovino says, “If it’s about dinner, I’ll cook.”

“It’s not!” Feliciano exclaims, much too loudly. “I want to ask you something.”

Lovino sits up. “You already said that.”

“Oh! Yes, I know. I just wanted to make sure.” Feliciano nibbles on his lip. “It’s very important. Very, _very_ important.”

Lovino waves a hand. “Spit it out already.”

“Okay. Well…do you love me?”

Lovino startles. “Uh, yeah. Why?”

Feliciano scoots forward, snatching Lovino’s hands and clasping them together. “Are you sure?”

“Feli, I’m not _that_ much of a dick,” he huffs, trying to pull his hands away from the iron grip. “Just because I don’t say it doesn’t mean I don’t.”

“Then I need you to promise me something!” Feliciano blurts. The sun lights his eyes in a sprinkling golden hue, slightly orange. His hands become tighter. “Promise me something!”

“Feli, you know no one…” Feliciano’s lip trembles, and Lovino’s sighs again. “Okay.”

“Promise me…” Feliciano begins softer this time. “Promise me that…you won’t be angry.”

He tenses, eyes narrowing. “Get mad at _what_?”

“It’s nothing bad!” Feliciano protests. “I just want you to promise you will hear me out. Just let me tell you what I need to. Please.”

Feliciano’s erratic breathing swarms the silence, and Lovino tries and fails to repurchase his hands. “Fine. I’m listening.”

Feliciano ducks his head and pats his knuckles, then lets a soft smile grace his lips. “Lovino, Ludwig proposed to me.”

“ _What?_ ” His eyes fly to their clasped hands, spotting the gold adorning his ring finger. “He proposed _again_? I swear I’ll–”

“Don’t say anything!” Feliciano pleads, words sharp even though his face remains the same. “Let me talk. _Please_.”

He presses his lips into a thin line. He hardly manages.

“Thank you,” Feliciano says softly. “Thank you…Ludwig asked. I said yes. We both mean it. With the wall finally down, we’ve been talking. Ludwig is the only person I can ever imagine being with for the rest of my life. He’s _been_ with me most of my life. And, even though he’s a man–”

“No shit he’s a man, Feliciano,” he growls, and Feliciano winces. “I’ve put up with your stupid relationship for _so long_. I’ve let _so many_ things slide. Your persistence, his people when I asked for just some fucking peace, but what was that for? He’s fucking destroyed you! Don’t you remember? Do you not remember him leaving you? How you came to _me_ for help?”

Feliciano’s voice becomes desperate. “Lovino, please.”

“You can’t even get married here, not without boss’ permission! Where are you going to go crawling off to–the Dutch? _Spain_? Oh, now that’s just fucking splendid. My brother getting married to a man in another country. When the hell are you going to get your head out of your ass and realize he’ll hurt you again?”

“He won’t hurt me again,” Feliciano says, lowly. “And, you know that. He’s loved me for so long, and I’ve loved him. You know this.”

“He’s going to hurt you again.” Lovino yanks his hands away. “And, you’ll come to me when he hurts you, just like last time. It’s wrong, Feliciano. Fuck, I let you date him and sleep with him, but this? This is too far! Too fucking far!”

Feliciano’s face drops. “Lovino,” he says quietly. “You have Antonio. Why can’t I have someone for my own?”

“Don’t start that bullshit with me, Feli.”

“But–”

“He’s just like Ludwig, Feliciano. If I give him the slightest opening, he’ll use me and be on his way. I’m trying to protect you. You can’t marry him. Not if I have anything to say about it.”

“Just because you hate yourself doesn’t mean you have to ruin what I have!”

Feliciano gasps, hands flying to his mouth, as soon as the words leave, and Lovino’s stutters as his eyes flick to the horizon, watching the grass slide with the breeze and the sun burn rustic orange as it falls. Whimpering fills the silence. Lovino stands.

Feliciano bursts into tears. “I-I didn’t mean it! Wait, I’m sorry! I hadn’t meant it!” He snags his wrist, tugging. “I swear, I swear! It slipped out! I’m…I’m…”

“Save it.” His teeth grind like gears. “It doesn’t matter what you think about me. Get married. I couldn’t care less.”

He rips his wrist away, ignoring Feliciano’s pleas when he slams the door. His brother doesn’t follow him inside, and he doesn’t say a word when he packs his things.

*

“–breathing faster–”

“Shit, oh shit–”

“–waking up!”

Lovino peels open his eyes, and the first thing he sees is blond hair. People are running, gliding. Everything’s too bright, too fast, and pale hands fumble with something long.

His head rolls to the side. Antonio’s face is ripped away.

“–out–”

“–hand me–”

“–can hear–”

Ludwig’s mouth jerks under the red-brown flecks dotting his nose. He stops, and Lovino can’t decipher what is said, but he’s daunt still.

 “–if you just–”

“–dwig, snap out–”

“–out, Feli, now–”

Ludwig’s hand fly. Red eyes, mouth whispering as he groans. Snow-white palms cup his cheeks.

“–have to, yes? Get it together,” Gilbert says, breathless, manic. “You’re fine, completely fine, just a few scratches. C’mon, you’re too much of an asshole to let this get you down. Feli is being a crybaby again because you won’t shut up. You’re fine. You’re so, completely fine. ‘Toni’s waiting for you, too, you know. Down in the dumps, or however the fuck you say it. But, he’s been waiting, so make sure you give him a load of your awesome legs when everything’s done. And the garden! You haven’t seen it for a few months, right? Don’t be an idiot and leave ‘Toni tending to it alone, man. So, don’t fall asleep. It may hurt a bit, but guess what–Wait, stay awake, Lovino. No…no, no, wait, Lovino–”


	3. Envy

“Rome is so beautiful this time of the year,” Antonio says. “Very beautiful.”

Lovino takes a bite of his pizza, trying to blink sleep away. The rising sun stings his eyes, but not as much as the smile radiating at his feet.

“It’s too bright,” Lovino says over a mouthful of pepperoni. He kicks his feet up on the windowsill. “My retinas are going to singe.”

“That’s from staying up too late.” Antonio wiggles his bare toes over the carpet. “I think it’s nice, how bright it is. Like you.”

Lovino mutters, “Calling me bright is like calling England sensible.”

Antonio lolls his head to the ceiling. “You’re bright, Lovi. Not like the sun, but in a different way. Kind of warm. Makes me want to drink wine with you, and eat pasta with you, and make you smile. And, court you, of course.”

Lovino sighs under the spring heat. “The day I say yes is the day you’ll stop getting harassed by that snail-sucking bastard.”

“Francis doesn’t harass me. He’s just very touchy-feely. He’s like that with everyone.” Antonio’s eyes crinkle, and he pinches a patch of his sweatpants. Lovino kicks Antonio’s wrist, nearly losing his grip on his pizza.

“Fuck off.” He settles his legs back in place as Antonio whines with downturned lips. Lovino nibbles on his food and stares back outside. “It’s not even that pretty.”

Antonio says, “You never realize how beautiful you are.”

Lovino glances down at himself, pizza stuffed into his mouth, sauce slathered on hand, and the ratty t-shirt he’d stolen from his brother nearly two decades ago. He’d slipped on his mismatched brown and orange socks this morning, and he’s already made two new holes getting caught on the corner of the refrigerator. “Oh yeah,” he snorts, “I’m the epitome of beauty.”

“I’m serious,” Antonio glances up underneath his lashes. “It’s one reason why I will court you.”

“You will _not_. This whole perverted scheme to compliment me into sleeping with you isn’t working. And, it’s not going to work.”

Antonio sighs, like he does _every_ time they have this conversation. “It’s not a scheme.”

“Mm.”

They sit in silence. Lovino finishes off his pizza, licking his fingers and watching the clouds glide through the sky in a drowsy race. He begins to doze when Antonio reaches sets a hand on his, pressing his palm into the doughy armrest.

“Come down here,” Antonio says.

Antonio pushes the footstool underneath the recliner. He’s tucked between Antonio’s thighs, and arms wind around his waist to hug him tight.

“Lovi,” Antonio murmurs next to his ear, becoming pliable, “why don’t you tell me anything?”

“Don’t ask that sort of idiotic question,” he says under his breath. “I don’t trust you, bastard. You’re very untrustworthy.”

“Am I?” Antonio chuckles. “I hadn’t realized.”

“You are.” Antonio’s breathy laugh kicks up his hair, and he roves his fingers over his ribcage. Lovino says, “If you tickle me, I’ll kick you out. You’re lucky I’m letting you do this shit.”

“Sorry.” The fingers stop, and it leaves a hovering silence in their wake. It suddenly occurs to him Antonio isn’t smiling. Antonio says, “You worry me sometimes.”

Lovino rolls his eyes. “Fuck you and your worrying. I’m not some weak little girl. I can take care of myself.”

“It’s not that,” Antonio says. “You haven’t gone to church in so long. You always refused to go up North, but I didn’t see you go last Sunday, and you haven’t even talked about going tomorrow. And not only that – _you_ invited me here on your own! You never invite me.”

“It’s because you’re obnoxious,” Lovino growls without bite. “Am I not allowed to invite you into my land, bastard? Or do you want me to kick you out? Because I will. You know I will.”

“No, no! I’m very happy you invited me!” Antonio exclaims. “I just don’t like sleeping on the couch.”

“You’re not sleeping in my bed. No fucking way.”

“I’m not going to do anything,” Antonio whines, nearly a keen. “You think I’d really do that?”

“Of course, I do!” He flails, but Antonio holds him in place, now making a clear statement by tightening his grip. Lovino continues, “And, don’t do anything stupid out in public either, bastard. Seriously. I mean it.”

“Your people don’t mind, Lovi,” Antonio says with a smile. “They’re nice. Well, most of them.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Hey, Lovi?”

Lovino growls, “What?”

“You know that I’ll always protect you, right?” Antonio says, soft and fluid, like water drizzling through his ears. “I’ll protect you from you, like Feli said.”

…

Cool sheets are wrapped around his ankles, balmy and warm, and the concrete weight around his waist is beginning to dig into his ribs.

He tries worming forward, but the arm curls like a snake. He kicks out his leg to shove the thighs curling under his rear out of place. He receives a blunt knee to the tailbone.

“Bastard,” he hisses, voice grating with sleep. Antonio doesn’t stir. With another fit of lethargic struggling, he’s held solid with a soft snore chilling his hair.

“Maybe if you weren’t so clingy, this wouldn’t be a problem,” he says, spitting the words like poison. “Letting him crawl into your bed like a toddler, what did you expect? For him to sleep on the edge? Fucking…so stupid.”

He squirms until he’s lying on his shoulder. Antonio is softer this way with his cheek molded to the pillow and his forehead slack. No red-faced, dimple-pinched smile. His bare arms are too strong, splayed fingers too heavy over his stomach.

Lovino stares, then closes his eyes, whispering. He cranes his neck forward, hovers his lips above Antonio’s, feather-like, lashes tickling his cheeks. Pecking his nose, he lies his head back on his pillow to fall into a fitful sleep.

…

“ – back – ”

…

Leaves crunch. Sticks tear his ankles, wind roars, and liquid fire stings his legs. He doesn’t stop running. Delving deeper into the forest, trees whip by like sharp-statured silhouettes.

He soon collapses to the dewy ground, gasping for air and clawing at the dirt. A sheer glint of silver clamps, and he screams and writhes until he tastes blood on his tongue. He doesn’t pass out, no matter how much he wants to.

Fingers slice and leak. Trees shake. Squeals of night-life peal through the ground.

He sobs. The blood is black and sticky like tar. He yanks the chain to lug himself up and vomit, stomach clenching until he can no longer control it and twitches in tears.

He tastes pine and doesn’t make a sound.

…

The meeting is unsuccessful. Alfred butts into Francis and Arthur’s argument. Feliciano begs Ludwig to go out for gelato, Ivan hovers and smiles, and Peter creates a new-found chaos with his shouting. Roderich turns to him, pert mouth, mole, and all, and asks, “Are you and Antonio in a relationship?”

Lovino glares.

Roderich isn’t fazed. He waves Elizabeta’s attention away with a delicate hand and doesn’t avert his eyes. “I asked you a question, Romano. Answer.”

He digs his nails into the rickety chair and sneers, “Who told you that?”

“No one,” he says curtly. “I’ve been intending to ask.”

He glances to Antonio, who’s chatting with Feliciano about dinner plans. Antonio’s teeth are pearly white behind his smile, uniform bunched at his elbows and notes fluttering away in his jovial gestures.

“I’d never let that pervert touch me,” he says. It’s too hot in the crowded room, hectic bodies arguing over one another, voices carrying through the air.

“Hm.” Roderich flicks his glasses further up his nose. “That’s not what your brother says.”

He bristles. “Don’t talk to my brother. We already have enough krauts up in our business.”

“You have one.”

“Two.”

“I think you’re overexaggerating.”

“And, I think you’re sticking your big nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“Perhaps.” Roderich shrugs. “Well, maybe you should consider everything Antonio has done for you before you refuse his attempts of initiating intimate relations.”

His eyes narrow. “Did that bastard put you up to this?”

“No.” Roderich sniffs. “We haven’t spoken much since I handed you over to him.”

“Maybe he’s realized how much of an asshole you are.” Roderich’s curled lip is dragged out from under the stoic expression. Lovino does the same.

Roderich grows rigid, silent for a few moments before tightly saying, “He’s just ashamed for being disloyal towards you.”

Lovino asks, “What do you mean by that?”

“Why do you think he treated you so well when you were little? You were always so disrespectful and beyond rude. Considering you couldn’t even clean without breaking something historically valuable, I’m surprised he even came to me instead of tossing you to the streets. It’s happened before, hm? Of course, he had to let out that aggression somewhere. Among other things, knowing him.”

His mouth coils. “Why are you acting like a care?”

“Be respectful, Romano.”

“Towards you? I’m sorry, did all that nonexistent money get shoved so far up your ass it clogged your brain cells?” There’s a sharp inhale from somewhere in the room. Lovino lowers his voice. “And, he wouldn’t come to you. He’s stupid, but he’s not brain dead.”

Roderich smiles. “Typical of you to refuse the fact he didn’t want to have anything to do with you.”

He hisses, “Does it look like I give a damn?”

“Hmph.”

“Are you a child?”

“I should say the same to you.”

Elizabeta’s sets a hand on Roderich’s forearm, polite smile tight. “Roderich, could you refrain from speaking so loud? You both are dragging in some attention and – ”

“Stay out of this,” Lovino says.

Her lips stretch into a narrow line. “You’re causing a scene.”

“Maybe your boy toy should watch his mouth.”

Roderich straightens. “I’m just trying to be considerate. You can’t take an act of kindness, it seems.”

“An act of kindness.” The ominous pause begs to be released. “You’re just a fucking hypocrite.”

“I’m not here for you to self-reflect, Romano.”

Lovino’s hands wring into a spiral, like ragged twine. “Who the fuck do you think you _are_?”

Roderich raises a brow, face slackened. “I had only been trying to ask a question.”

“A _question_? I was under the impression you didn’t care about anything unless it had to do with you. And just because you knew Ro – ”

Fingers prod his arm and he tears his eyes to Feliciano. “ _Fratello_ ,” he says quietly. “Please be nice, _ve_? Maybe he was just – ”

He yanks his arm away. “Don’t you fucking _touch_ me.”

His brother’s face falls. It’s a rare display that has the entire room muttering quietly and Ludwig springing to his feet. “ _Romano_.”

“I don’t want to hear anything from you either,” he snaps, standing. The heat squeezes his lungs until the reds and greys in the carpet thread together. Antonio’s shoes step into his peripheral vision.

“Come on, Lovi – ”

“ _Stop_ calling me that _._ ”

He leaves. They groan about his temper, about how he’s still a child stuck in a nation’s body. They talk about the ring, about his hands and face and legs, how he looks, how he is, how broad the line is to be desired. And, Antonio stays with his brother.

…

The world is mixed, sundry, paint-brushed an electric blue, glass smudged with leaden liquid. Antonio’s skin flickers between pale-tan and pink and red.

He groans.

“You shouldn’t have drunk so much, Lovi. You’re going to have a nasty hangover tomorrow morning.”

“I don’t give a flying fuck.”

“But, you’ll have a headache.”

“You’re giving me a headache right now.” He smears his hand over Antonio’s face, then grabs his half-full glass of Añejo and throws his head back, swallowing. The burn is nice. He’s never been a tequila person, but it’s wooden and stinks of spice and age. “This shit’s good.”

“I’m happy you’re happy, but I think this should be your last glass, my love. Anymore and you’ll puke.” Antonio’s palm rests on his back, but he shrugs it off. The bartender shuffles over and refills his glass without a word.

“That’ll be it for tonight, miss.” Antonio chuckles as Lovino snatches the glass to his lips. “I think my partner has had enough. Thank you.”

“Don’t call me that, bastard.”

The bartender asks, “You’re taking him home?”

“Yes.”

Disinterested. “Okay.”

Lovino rests his cheek in the crook of his elbow. He doesn’t realize he’d knocked his glass over until Antonio’s long fingers dart to catch it. “Careful, Lovi.”

“I am careful,” Lovino says, feeling his teeth flash in a bared smile. He sets the glass in his palm in a mock display of balance. “See? I’m fucking amazing at carefulness. Unlike you. Always messing shit up with your pretty fucking face.”

Antonio has half the mind the laugh. “Oh?”

He turns to him, stares, then lays his head back down. “Never thought you’d be caught speechless.”

Their backs are to the rest of the bar, so Antonio has to gaze over his shoulder. There’s women vulnerably dressed, draped in silk red booths, and a few couples pressed close under the dim lights. Sprinkles of fairy lights illuminate men sipping their whiskey.

“Nothing to say?” Lovino says.

“We should go, Lovi,” Antonio says, and his words are so rushed they nearly go through one ear and straight out the other. But, still, Lovino hears, yet he can’t find it in himself to care. Antonio continues, “You’ve had too much to drink. And, besides, Feli is going to be worried why we’re out so late.”

“Fuck my brother!” He waves an arm. “He isn’t worried. He’s too busy sucking that potato-bastard’s dick! Well, I don’t need him. None of it!”

Laughter rumbles under his feet.

“Lovi,” Antonio stresses, “now is not the time.”

“Time!” He shoves his toes into buckle of Antonio’s boot, and Antonio’s leg darts away. “I’ve got plenty of that! Plenty of it to get everyone off my back. You’re all assholes, none of you matter to me. And I’m not your colony anymore, so _you_ don’t tell _me_ what to – ”

Antonio’s nails dig sharply into his arm. “We’re leaving _now_.”

It doesn’t take long to get the car, even as Lovino wobbles through the bar, through the stares and the amused whispers and the dim lighting and foreign hands reaching out below his waist. Outside, the wind is heavy with cheap perfume. Antonio smells like spicy cologne, and even though Antonio’s allowed himself two glasses of wine, he holds Lovino up as he stumbles into headlights and tires. Lovino’s eyes droop as he hands himself off the car.

Antonio yanks the backdoor open, struggling to coax him upright. Lovino bumps his knee into the side of the car, cursing as his legs buckle over the edge of the seat and he falls onto his back with an otherwise quiet _thump_.

Antonio sighs as he stays limp against the leather. “Lovi, please lift your legs.”

He raises one leg and hooks his ankles around Antonio’s waist and tenses. Antonio hardly has time to make a sound before tumbles onto him, slamming his nose into his shoulder.

“Ow!” Antonio props up with an elbow, clutching his nose. His eyes are so green, body outlined by the dim street lights.

“You deserved that!” Lovino says, and he feels any control slip through his fingers like sand as sudden laughter gushes through the barriers.

Antonio stills, mesmerized. “You’re laughing,” he says simply.

He laughs again. “Of course I’m laughing. I’m fucking drunk.”

“You’re always angry when you’re drunk, my love,” Antonio says. “You should smile more. You look stunning.”

“Do I?”

“Of course. You’re always stunning,” Antonio says, patting his hair before shifting between his thighs. “Now let’s get you home and we’ll – ”

The kiss clicks their teeth and bruises their lips, and Lovino’s nails tangle through Antonio’s hair while he shoves his tongue into his mouth. He tastes, strikingly, of bland wine, and his tongue withers like sandpaper from the aftertaste of tequila. Antonio slowly, _slowly_ , cups his cheeks and pushes against his arms to pull away.

Lovino stares for a moment, something steadily building back up in his stomach, reaching his shoulders, and he whispers, “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Antonio says. “You’re drunk. It’s okay.”

“But, still,” he says, “I’m sorry.”

…

“Haven’t seen you in a while.”

Nails coil, steps shuffle, and darkness courses in inky tendrils up the brick.

“Oh, come on, what’re you doing out here? It’s quite dangerous, if you ask me.”

Sawdust. It floats in the air and coats it like paint, silver and grey.

“Where’s that man of yours?”

Bursts of color, scattered strands of fire in his eyelids. It’s pretty.

The ground tastes like salt.

But Lovino doesn’t care.

…

It’s rare when he takes notice of how blue the sky is. Maybe, today, the sun decided he’d needed a moment to see how blue it is and how blue it has become. It doesn’t faze him, though. Trees sway and birds chirp, pecking for berries and worms. It’s him and the breeze adorning the green leaves, and the sun granting him a momental gift of sympathy, he supposes.

The stones are rotten with age, and the corners are steadily eroding. He stops in front of one. This one, to anyone else, would just be another grave to pass by. It doesn’t stand how, nothing is distinguishable, and it’s barely visible under the curls of green-black vines. But, it is different.

In actuality, it’s different like a mirror. The reflection of a man, brown-haired, heart-shaped face, sharp shoulders. Amber eyes differ, also, as does the space between a grimace and the eloquent raise of cheeks.

Nearby, a car horn blares, and the trees rustle as a squirrel bounces a limb, scattering the birds into the sky. A name peeks through the growth.

_Romulus Antiqua._

He wonders if the grave had been necessary. A soul is somewhere without life, while they had been the symbol of so. With their heart, and their people that had been conceived, and those that had passed with blood or a wisp of dying breath in age. They had lived through it all.

 _I don’t think he’s lying_ , he wants to say.

“Good afternoon,” he says to the stone. “I think I’m alone.”


	4. Hatred

“Happy birthday to you…Happy birthday to you…”

The whispering teases the air. It’s mumbled through a smile.

“Happy birthday to Lovi…”

He presses his face harder into the pillow.

“Happy birthday to you!”

The sheets are yanked away, any warmth that had lulled him into sleep gone as he’s rolled onto his back.

“Happy birthday, my love!” Antonio bellows, catching his thrashing legs and throwing a knee over his waist.

“What the fuck, bastard!” he nearly screams. His blinks and grimaces at the lug of a man that has his arms trapped on either side of his head. The grin is like the early sunshine peeking through the curtains, and his gaze falls. “You are _naked_!”

“Of course!” Antonio laughs. The tangled mass of curls on his head shake as Lovino attempts to buck him off. “I thought you’d be naked too, so I wanted to join in!” His smile droops. “You’re wearing pants.”

“You goddamn pervert,” Lovino hisses. “I’d be stupid if I was naked in the house with you lurking around.” He struggles harder. “Now get off!”

“Not yet! Not yet!” Antonio says. “I want to give you your present before we go see Feli!”

Lovino pauses, and his eyes become slits. “I told you not to get me anything, bastard.”

“I couldn’t help it,” Antonio says, shamelessly eyeing Lovino’s bare chest. “And guess what? It’s _special_ kind of present.”

“Oh, God. Shut up.” He falls still under Antonio’s thighs, which are definitely not sculpted into the smallest hint of love-handles, and between his fucking _legs_ – “Put some clothes on first!”

“Hm…” The smile makes him swallow. “I’ll put on clothes if I get a good morning kiss.”

He pauses, grumbles.

“What?”

“I said _fine_.”

Antonio blinks.

“Go on. Before I change my mind.”

The bed creaks as Antonio leans down and kisses him. It’s a mere soft press, but Antonio giggles when he pulls away.

“Why the fuck are you blushing?”

Antonio doesn’t try to cover his red face. “You’re just so cute, Lovi.”

He rolls his eyes. “Jesus, just show me the present.”

“Oh!” Antonio springs off the bed, tripping over the tangled sheets as he scrambles to the mahogany dresser underneath the open window. Lovino falls back into bed and tries to grip the sheets, but once again their ripped away as Antonio climbs back on the mattress, arms behind his back.

“Pick a hand,” he says.

Lovino raises a brow and cautiously sits up against the headboard. “Weirdo,” he says, then points to his hidden left hand. “That one.”

Antonio flings his arm around and crawls closer. He unravels his fingers.

Lovino stares.

Antonio peeks up at him.

“What is it?”

“Oh, come on!” Antonio bounces his hand. “It’s a bracelet.”

“…Okay?”

“And look!” His other arm reaches out to reveal another bracelet. They both are made of finely-threaded, dark leather with two strands of loose silk at the bottom. In the middle, a rock sits in polished silver. “We match!”

Lovino chokes hard against a laugh bubbling in his chest. He clears his throat, the tell-tale warmth creeping up his neck and ears. It’s so…gay. “Bastard. I told you not to get me anything.”

“Mm.” Antonio carefully slides the bracelet on his wrist, pinching the silk strands snug. Then he slides on his own. “See? Aren’t they cute?”

The rock is familiar. When looked at closer, its small and lined with smoothed-out ridges and a spotless bright grey. The bracelets a perfect resemblance of one another.

“Why a rock?” he asks.

Antonio laughs, strangely shy as his blush blooms further over his nose. “They’re one of the pebbles we found at the river. You said you liked it, so I took it in and had it cut in half. They sanded them down, so that’s why they look like their own rocks. But they actually came from one!” He clasps their hands and flutters his fingers along the leather. “Do you like it?”

“Uh, well, yes – I mean.” Lovino tries to lower his brows. “It’s…nice. Really.”

Antonio throws his arms around his shoulders. “You like it!”

“I said it was _nice_ – ack!” He shoves the lips off his neck and hisses, “You idiot, go put clothes on!”

Antonio lets go, humming, “Okay” while struggling to get out of the thick comforter, trotting to the bathroom. Lovino sighs against the pillows and looks back to the bracelet.

…

He shifts, breathes in slow, and takes in the scent of pasta, red sauce, and the fresh bloom of tomatoes in the peak of summer. A hint of oregano, even peppers, make him smile, burying his nose into the pillow and grasping the duvet.

A tense moment goes by and he blinks open his eyes, arm hovering midair in the heap of golden light swimming over his skin. No one is enwrapped against him. In fact, there’s nothing at all. The sheets are bland. They are empty, light.

The door teeters. “We’re done.”

But he doesn’t move.

…

The blood is crusted over his palms and crumbling under his fingernails. He doesn’t like the air. Around Antonio it’s alight and alive with salt water and sweat and murder. The servants don’t approach him, they know not to while he’s smiling to himself after a battle. When Lovino clears his throat, Antonio limps over, kneeling and hugging him to his breastplate. His hair is caked and his shirt is drenched and there is death under his nose, fresh.

They are both silent on the way to the private bath. He strips away the dented armor and soaked cloth, and Lovino discards his own dress to clean inside his bruised skin, tender around the tissue tugging itself back together. Antonio’s becoming skinny again. Each vertebrae of his spine are pronounced like the black keys of a piano. Antonio humming reverberates through the dim room.

“May I wash your hair?” Antonio asks, raising his voice to rid the thickness in his throat.

Lovino scrubs the bar of chalky soap against his palms and slathers it onto the crown of Antonio’s head. “If you stop crying,” he says.

“I’m not crying, Lovi.” Antonio drifts his palms over the baby pink water. “And most of this isn’t mine. I feel bad for that one man I left. Maybe I’ll get the Queen next time?”

After a doing a violent number on Antonio’s hair with his twitching fingers, he tries his best at massaging his scalp. Antonio sputters when he dumps the bucket of lukewarm water over his head, wiping soap from his eyes.

“You’re ill,” Lovino says.

“Warn me next time,” Antonio whines.

“Grow up.”

He grabs the rag and drenches it before lathering it with soap, his left elbow jerking once. Antonio stays quiet with his bitten lips while Lovino drags the cloth over his skin. “If you’re going to cry, do it later,” Lovino says haughtily. “I swear, you’re fucking terrifying, and then you come home and act like a child.”

Antonio doesn’t smile. “I’m only coming home for you, Lovi. You’re the only reason.”

He moves to the back of Antonio’s neck, pushing aside the thick strands of hair at the base, and rubs along his spine. “I shouldn’t be the reason you’re alive. Or dead.”

“But it’s true.”

Lovino scrapes the blood under his nose. Antonio’s eyes are close enough to see the creases of laugh lines and the two light freckles above his lashes. They disappear in his brows when he peeks up at him.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s the same for me, you know.”

“Hm?”

“You shouldn’t be the reason I’m alive or dead.”

“Oh.” Antonio tries to look towards him, but keeps his eyes on Antonio’s hair. “Well, I don’t want to be, either.”

“Then you know, bastard.”

The only sound is the water sloshing from Lovino’s jouncing knees for several minutes. Antonio’s breathing evens out, as if he’d fallen into the hands of slumber. Despite the shaking in his limbs, he seems at peace. A rare sight amongst the war. Surely rare after Antonio steps away from the sea.

Lovino inhales and circles around Antonio’s back. “Bastard. Would you…tell me something?”

Antonio tries to glance over his shoulder, but Lovino presses hard against a purple-green mottled bruise. “Ow, ow, Lovi.” His mouth pinches. “What do you want me to tell you?”

The air hums with stallions roving hooves from outside, with winding wheels and the scuffle of boots. “If my citizens…my people, were to do anything bad, tell me you won’t hurt them.”

Antonio frowns with his whole body, dropping an inch under Lovino’s fingertips. “I wouldn’t hurt anyone unless I needed to. Did I…scare you that much? I hadn’t meant to.”

“You’re about as scary as the bastard up East,” he says. “You’re just weird, not scary.”

“Oh.” He threads his fingers. “No one has ever said that before. You’re being so kind, Lovi.”

“I’m kind all the time. Now just tell me.”

“Okay. I won’t hurt any of your people.”

“No, no.” His fingers pause, and he watches the pink water snake over Antonio’s spinal column to the small of his back. “At the expense of me. Don’t hurt anyone at the expense of me.”

Antonio laughs in response to a hollow joke. “That’s silly, Lovi. I’d do anything for you.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t want you to. It’s as pathetic as it is embarrassing.”

“I don’t think that matters.”

He slaps his knuckles against Antonio’s shoulders and shifts back when his knee jolts outward, knocking the side of the tub. “Don’t be rude, you prick. Just tell me you won’t hurt anyone.”

Antonio hums, “Okay. Okay, I won’t.” He smiles. “I promise I won’t hurt anyone.”

Lovino grimaces. “Don’t _promise_. No one keeps promises.”

“That isn’t true!”

“Just _tell me_.”

Antonio pauses. There’s dried blood still slathered over the left side of his face – the side he’d yet to clean. “I can’t say I wouldn’t hurt your people,” Antonio says. “Because I’d kill anyone for you. I promise.”

…

“Sometimes, when I look at pasta, I think of fish.”

His frown is lined with what seems like age. Ludwig sighs and twists fettuccine around his fork. “How so?”

Feliciano’s smile becomes eager and he plucks a pale noodle from his plate, dangling it mid-air. “ _Ve_ , well, first it’s all floundery and noodly, like a fish out of water when it’s taken out of the net and put on deck.” He bounces it. “It’s all gross when it’s alive, so people cook it, then…” He tips his head to swallow the noodle, smacking his lips in a giggle. “Tada!”

Ludwig sighs again.

Feliciano wriggles another noodle. “But, it’s also different. You know why, Luddy?”

“…Why?”

“Because it’s a noodle!”

“I’m aware, Feliciano.” He winds his fork with pasta. “The noodle is a noodle and a fish is a fish. They’re nowhere close.”

“Yes, they are! I just told you why! Look!” He pinches a few, flicking off speckles of parmesan.

“Don’t play with your food.”

“ _Ve_ , I’m not!” He points at one flimsy noodle. “Now, tell me: Is the noodle the same as that one?” He directs his finger to another.

“Yes. They’re both fettuccine.”

“Close! They’re fettuccine but they aren’t the _same_ ,” Feliciano says, reaching closer to gain his full attention. “They both _are_ tasty, and both _are_ fettuccine, but they aren’t the same noodle, are they?”

“No…” His brows furrow. “You just contradicted yourself. And what does this have to do with fish?”

“Because they are similar.”

“But it’s a fish and a noodle.”

“Exactly.” Feliciano releases a satisfied breath before slurping the noodles.

Ludwig wrinkles his nose. “Is this another one of your wise tales? I don’t see your point.”

He pouts. “ _Ve,_ your mind is still young. Besides, doesn’t it kind of remind you of us? It’s like, I’m a noodle and you’re a fish, but we still flop around the same deck!”

He stares. “That’s rather insightful, Feliciano. Now, please finish your dinner before you make a mess.”

…

A scream.

Then crying. It fills the house.

The door cracks against the wall. Feliciano springs up from bed, hardly awake and contorted with lethargy. Wood splinters into thick shards in a rancid slickness, and the stairs are too short, too quick, but the fear works alongside his feet, because he knows who the scream came from.

“I can’t – ugh!” Leather rips, and he peeks around the corner, silent and barefooted against the hardwood floors. White feathers scatter in tufts to the ground.

He curls against the wall. “Brother?”

The stomps of boots stop, but everything hangs heavy in the air.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“U-Um, well, I just…I was just…” He swallows. “I wanted to visit you. What’s going on, brother? Why are you breaking things?”

Silence wraps it arms around the house. Feliciano presses his face to the chilliness of the wall. A shattered lamp lies at Lovino’s feet and the mahogany desk is tipped on its side, pale-birch around the edges.

“Feli, you need to go.” Lovino’s voice sinks, frayed.

“I-I don’t think – ”

“ _Please_ , leave.”

He stutters a moment. “Brother, I’m not going to just…Please tell me – ”

“I said get the _fuck_ out of my house!” Lovino slams his feet into the ground as he stomps towards him, glass scuttling under his boots. Feliciano scurries behind the wall again and catches a whisper of red along Lovino’s illuminated face.

“Is that blood?” he chokes, creeping into the invisible barrier between them that keeps Lovino hovering into a broiling rage just a meter away. “Lovi, are you okay? Your eyes, brother. You’re hurt!”

“Feli, I said get _out_ of my house,” Lovino growls tightly, breath whistling through his teeth. “Get out, or I’ll throw you out myself.”

“You wouldn’t do that,” Feliciano says. “There’s blood all over your face! Please let me clean it up!”

“No!” His leg skids in a limp as he lunges, snatching Feliciano by the forearm in a bruising grip and yanking him away from the wall. He’s dragged into the living room passed the scatter of snow-white documents spread lone on the floor. He shoves his toes into Lovino’s kneecap, wrenching himself away while Lovino hisses and buckles at the waist. “Fucking shit – Feli!”

“You – You _hurt_ me!” Feliciano cries through the tears, cradling his arm with wide eyes. He takes in the splatters of red on his blazer. “There’s – There’s…”

“Get out. Get out _right_ now!” Lovino makes another grab for him, but Feliciano darts away. “I can’t stand this. Leave! I don’t want you here!”

He backs into the ripped couch and wrings his fingers around his shirt. “Lovi, d-don’t say things like that. What happened? You’re hurt.”

“Shut up, Feli!” His name cracks, and Feliciano realizes Lovino’s crying. They’re both crying, and his big brother is covered in blood, looking of bad memories. “Why won’t you just shut up for one goddamn second? It’s not that fucking hard!”

“What are you – you’re _bleeding_! Let me help you! Who did it? Was it the mafia? Because I can – ”

Lovino gnashes his teeth. “I don’t need your help,” he sneers, then throws his hands up in a pitiful display of control. “Why the fuck do you care?”

Feliciano trembles. “Why wouldn’t I care? Please, brother, there’s so much blood.”

“Stop lying! You _always_ lie! Is that what Rome taught you – to lie to my face? Because I’m fucking sick of it! I’m sick of all this – everything – especially _you_.” It’s spat like poison, and Feliciano begins to sob. Lovino looks away. “It’s – It’s not right. It shouldn’t happen like this. I know it shouldn’t!”

“Stop it,” Feliciano cries, “stop it! What are you talking about? If – If you want me to go get Antonio, I will. He’ll know what to do. If you just let me clean you up. Clean up the blood!”

Lovino slams his foot into the desk, snapping a thick leg off, and raises into pained shrieks while clutching his thigh.

“Brother _,_ stop, please, why are you – ”

The wood hits the floor and Lovino’s lip curls, feral. “Stop acting like you care.”

“Of course I care!”

“Really?” he utters. “You don’t know any fucking better. You wouldn’t know, because everyone stopped caring when _you_ were born!”

He dissolves into heavy sobs, and Feliciano shakes on the couch, holding his face in his hands while Lovino collapses to the floor in a heap, clutching his chest and gulping for air, shuddering and gasping, pressing his forehead to the floor.

“Stop,” Feliciano gasps through his palms. “Just stop already, please. Y-You’re not – You don’t act this way. This isn’t…”

“I don’t…want you to fucking see! Why can’t you just listen for _once_?”

…

“But you’re not really dead. Can your kind even die?”

“Not indefinitely, I guess.”

“Maybe you’ll never find that salvation.”

“I guess not.”

“Maybe you already have it.”

“I don’t – wait.”

“What?”

“It hurts.”

…

Gilbert shoots up in his creaking chair, nearly tearing the towel under his fingertips, and knocks his head into the cabinet behind him. Feliciano stares from across him, body lurching as he slams himself into the wall, fist lodged between his teeth.

“Feli, what – ”

The table reels under his hands as he scrambles to snatch the twisting body, stiff and snapping subtly, almost calmly, side to side, spine twitching into an arch.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Gilbert digs his nails into Lovino’s arms and rolls him onto his side, yanking his hair back to raise his chin. “Feli, get Ludwig!”

Feli’s eyes don’t tear away, muttering in sobs, hardly audible as his breath rips through his lungs. “ _Fratello, fratello_ – ”

Gilbert sneers to himself and stuffs his hand underneath Lovino’s head, thankful his skull only rolls slowly against his knuckles. Lovino continues to jerk in small movements for minutes through Feliciano’s soft pleading, and Ludwig spirals down the stair-case as his body abruptly stops.

“What happened?” Ludwig demands, prying Gilbert’s hand away and pressing two fingers to his jugular. “He’s fine. Was that a…seizure?”

“It can’t be,” Gilbert says, realizes he’s gasping as he pulls his crumbled hand to his chest. He steps away. “His wounds have nothing to do with – It didn’t even look…can we even have seizures?”

“I don’t know!” Ludwig tosses his hands in the air. “Where the hell is Feliciano?”

Gilbert points.

“Oh. Oh _Gott_.” Ludwig’s body sags as he shuffles across the room, crouching, and carefully – impossibly carefully – takes Feliciano’s wrists away from his mouth, watching the tears slide over his lips. “Feli, come here.”

Feliciano’s head shakes rapidly, lips trembling. “I can’t. I can’t, Ludwig, _fratello’s_ not okay. He’s not okay, he’s not okay, and I _can’t_ …”

“He’s fine, Feli. He’s fine.” Feliciano wrenches away from his hands, closing his eyes and tilting his head up, beginning to sob into the silence.

“I did this,” he wails. “I’m the one who left him alone.”

…

“Are you even listening?”

He tilts his head. “Hm?”

“You’re not.” Sadiq takes a drag from his cigarette, smoke slinking from his lips and into the frigid air.

“I was,” he says, an evident lie. Resting his chin in his palm, his eyes follow the scatter of ants marching down the rusty gutter. They’re carrying a piece of mango.

Sadiq hoists himself up with a grunt to settle next to him. His mask is gone from over his dark eyes, and his dress shirt is bunched at the elbows. “You know,” he inquires, “I didn’t think I’d be spending my Christmas Eve on the edge of Spain’s roof while everyone else is getting drunk inside.”

“Then go join them.” Inside, the collection of voices cheer suddenly, then drown into laughter. “It’s called a party for a reason.”

“Parties are supposed to be fun.”

“It sounds like it is.”

Sadiq makes a noise in the back of his throat. The golden light spills through the windows below their feet. “Then why don’t you go inside?”

He untucks a box of Camels from his shirt pocket and pulls one out with his lips. “I don’t like parties. That bastard won’t leave me alone.” He nods once. “Give me a light?”

Sadiq pulls out a lighter, clicking alight the flame. His eyes flick to his face then back to the orange glow. Lovino utters a small thanks and puffs once under Sadiq’s rounded nose before pulling away. Sadiq smiles.

He stares back to the party of ants, listening to the clinking of wine glasses and the thrum of modern holiday music. It’s so different from back then, when it was just chimes and door-to-door carols and early mornings for prayers and hours of mass, crosses and dark robes. He looks down at the short, golden grass.

“You still chummy with Spain?” Sadiq asks.

He takes a long pull and shrugs.

“I still don’t get it.” Sadiq flicks an ember. It floats down the side of the building and dissipates within a meter. Lovino can imagine it sizzling. “He’s never acted that way. So…smitten, so stupid. Even more childish than he had been. On the water, I’m sure he was knocking up women left and right. If we could have children, there’d be a line around the block waiting for him.”

“Don’t think he’s parent material?” Lovino asks.

“None of us are,” Sadiq says.

Corn stocks rattle with the wind, loose dirt shuffles in tufts. Lovino knows tomorrow he and Antonio will sift fertilizer through the stiff garden. After a much-needed cleaning of the house, of course. But, now, the air is different. The oranges and figs and ivory silk hadn’t seemed so rich hundreds of years ago. He supposes he hadn’t cared about such things.

“I have a question,” Lovino says finally.

“Ask away.”

“When I was younger,” he begins, then pauses. “When I had lived with him, remember when you stormed my kingdom and tried to take me?”

“Hm? Oh.” A single nod. “Yeah, why?”

“Why?”

Eyebrows furrow. “Why what?”

“Why did you try to take me?”

Sadiq glances at him, and a smile forms. “Is that idiot talking bad about me again?”

“He doesn’t talk about you.” He brushes his bangs away from his eye. “I just want to know.”

There’s only quiet for several wind-warm moments, and Sadiq says, “My boss wanted your land. I wanted to fuck around with Spain.”

Lovino inhales smoke. “Ah.”

A pause. “And…” he continues, pursing his lips, as if trying to yank the gears in his head to work and find the precise words wedged between them. “You were strong. Your nation was strong, even against Francis. Some of us – we knew you’d be useful. It was this unspoken thing.”

“Useful,” he echoes and drags his eyes over the tips of nearby trees at the entry of town.

“You have rage. You’d kill anyone that got in your way.” Briskly said, factual. Sadiq waves a calloused hand. “That’s admirable for how young you were. Who wouldn’t want someone like that at your side on the battlefield? And, to some extent, I had been planning to have you lead with me. When you were old enough, of course.”

He raises a brow.

A disconcerted huff. “I’m not joking. You were promising. The things Spain says, he’s not lying.”

“I didn’t come here to be _complimented_ ,” he drones, wrinkling his nose. “Pedo.”

Sadiq laughs. “I mean now!”

“Hm. Can’t seem to believe you.” He rests his chin on his palm as Sadiq shakes his head. “Bastard never really told me the real shit back then. Why that real shit happened.” He twists the cherry of his cigarette into the ledge and tilts Sadiq’s jaw to kiss his cheek. Sadiq smiles under his lips before Lovino pulls away.

“I’m going inside,” Lovino mutters before sliding down to the roof, gripping his sleeves.

“See you!” Sadiq calls. “And you’re welcome.”

…

Antonio’s smile is warm. Warmer than ember and like the bitter taste of aged wine. Someone whistles.

“There’s a mistletoe above us,” Antonio says, pinched-cheeked with those obscured two freckles above his eyelashes. The red-and-white hat is too big and slides down his forehead.

“I can see that,” Lovino says. “You put that there on purpose, didn’t you? Motherfucker.”

Antonio kisses him. Through the catcalls and lewd remarks, he tastes better than pine.

…

He dreams of rats this night.

Tufts of inky fur, clawed feet scurrying across his skin like tiny needles, metal-hard teeth hooking at his stomach, naked tail brushing over his ribs.

He’s silent. He feels the fire and sees the soft glow behind his eyelids. His wrists squirm against the rope. He hears the cheering, the jeering, someone screaming, “Sodomy! Sodomy!”

The metal begins to heat and his muscles twitch. He doesn’t say a word to the man whispering into his ear, “Who was it?”

…

The trees are still. The trees have never been still.

It’s, nonetheless, dark. He spots Antonio’s house in the far distance. The squirrel with chestnut skitters up the tree. Lovino leans away from the bark.

“I can’t do this,” he rasps. But his nails dig into the dirt and his legs stammer upright. His body unbuckles and he stands, eyes dry against the grinding in his knees and the metal teeth digging into the purple swell growing around his ankle. “Just come here! Come _here_ already, damnit!”

Nothing. Nothing moves.

…

He sees a flickering glimpse of his grandfather’s face, and he wakes up alone.


	5. Fluent

The bruises heal in fourteen hours, the lacerations heal in two days, his bones shift back together in four.

Ludwig stays even when his brother has to leave.

…

Arthur slips through his front door with freshly picked oranges, Cabernet Sauvignon, and too-bitter coffee beans.

The basket of ripe tomatoes on the porch begin to soften.

…

When Ludwig leaves, the house is silent.

Antonio makes him pot roast that smells of witch hazel and doesn’t hide his insistence with a bottle of rustic-brown whiskey.

…

Darkness builds under Feliciano’s eyes when he visits. He stays wide-eyed through his _siestas_. Lovino only knows because he wakes and sees him staring.

…

He hangs up on Sadiq three times in one week and watches the news late into the night until his retinas burn.

He dreams of rats, again.

The basket of tomatoes on the porch smell of rot.

…

He yanks open Antonio’s bedroom door and screams at him until his throat feels as if it’s going to bleed again. Antonio stays silent.

He leaves the next day.

…

No one calls. He digs through his damp basement until he finds his old radio from the ‘40s, scrapes off the layers of dust and listens to police scanners.

…

Gilbert arrives uninvited. That night, swimming with alcohol, Lovino tells him. All those centuries ago, before he’d united with his brother, when he wasn’t his own, how he was left with soil under his nails and tired legs when he had let his guard down for one moment.

He doesn’t remember it in the morning. Gilbert is gone. He’s left a note.

…

Antonio calls and he doesn’t pick up.

…

Antonio calls and he picks up.

…

Antonio finally speaks to him.

“Do you remember when you were little and Arthur broke in?” he asks quietly. “You know, when he trashed the house and took my tricorne?”

He stares forward. Antonio can’t see his eyes. He’s tricked by his body lying still and chest rising steadily against the couch cushions.

A chuckle rustles the air.

“And – And you did that thing with the frying pan – the one where you wielded it like a dueling sword and swung it at Arthur’s knees because you thought you could break them.” His laugh rises. “God, the look on Arthur’s face was priceless! Of course, I ended up dragging you back, but you were mighty strong! If I had let you go, I’m sure you would have killed him! Or, well, killed him with laughter, but it’s the thought that counts. You sure killed me with how adorable you were.”

Lovino scowls.

“It was,” Antonio continues, voice falling into something melancholy but not entirely sullen. “It was nice, back then.”

…

There’s a new basket of tomatoes on the front porch.

…

“When you think about it, Romano doesn’t talk very much,” Kiku says.

Herakles lifts his head and hums, “Continue.”

His thighs shift beneath Herakles cheek. “During the Second ‘War, when I worked with him.” A pause, ponderous. “Well, I suppose I hadn’t worked with him much personally. Not as much as Feliciano. But, I know you remember him.”

Herakles does. Lovino’s smile was sneered amid war. That October was cold and long. “I do,” he says. “He was difficult to handle.”

“Yes. But back then, even in the beginning, he hadn’t talked much.”

“Really?” he inquires. “Most would say he can’t shut his mouth.”

Kiku makes a noise. “Be respectful, Herakles. He hasn’t done anything wrong. He’s simply misguided.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, misguided.” A brisk breath. “I know it hasn’t been that long since then, but he hasn’t changed. From what Feliciano tells me, ever since they met and unified, he’s been the same.”

“Loud?”

“Herakles _._ ”

“Sorry.”

“You may think he’s loud, but I don’t believe he is,” Kiku continues. “I surmise you think he’s loud, possibly a bit over-bearing with foul language, possibly rash and short-tempered. And, maybe he is.”

Herakles smiles. Tonight, Kiku’s yukata is a medium blue. “You just insulted him.”

“Perhaps.” Kiku’s answer is light. “I’m sure he feels bouts of anger. Some more than others. And, maybe he’s just unskillful with restraint. But he doesn’t talk much.”

“I don’t agree.”

“He’s only rude and foul-mouthed and loud because he wants you to see him that way,” Kiku says with finality. “That’s how he would like everyone to think of him.”

Brows stitch together. “Why would he do that?”

“I’m not certain.” Herakles receives a glimpse of Kiku’s eyes sliding down to his for a moment before they flick back up and gaze out into the trees. “It isn’t any of my business, or my concern. What he says, he’s not really talking.”

Herakles breathes silently, thinks of his mother. “I think I see what you mean.”

…

Ludwig is shuffling through finished paperwork, lamp too bright in his eyes, when he catches the scrawled _South Italy, Romano – Vargas, Lovino_ underneath Feliciano’s graceful signature. He stops, stares, and leans back after a moment.

“Oh,” he says, “The fish and the noodle. I get it now.”

…

He opens the door without thought.

Then he slams it.

But, a polished shoe wedges itself through before it can shut, wrinkling the leather as it smashes against the doorframe. “ _Ow_.”

“Get the fuck off my property,” he hisses, pushing forward with his heels. “And get the fuck off my land!”

“Romano – ow, Christ! – Romano, listen!” Roderich barks through the door, not nearly as apologetic or desperate enough to Lovino’s liking. “Romano, this is hardly civilized!”

“Civilized my ass!” He presses harder until he hears wind whistle through Roderich’s teeth. “Speaking of asses: If you don’t turn around right now, I’m going to shove my foot so far up yours you’ll _taste_ it!”

“ _Romano_!” Roderich snaps. “I’m not here to cause any trouble. I have business to take care of!”

“What kind of business?”

“Well, if you just let me in – ow! You little – ”

“I think if you told me why you came here in a bitch fit, then maybe I’d be nicer!”

“Bitch fit? You’re the one who not allowing me to speak!”

He presses against the wood palm first, toes digging into the floor. Roderich yelps so loud he wonders if Antonio had heard it.

“Fine, fine!” Roderich cuts short another pitiful grunt. “It’s about Rome!”

He stops, letting himself sway until the foot yanks itself outside and the door slams. Agonizing seconds pass with Roderich’s heated breathing through the small hole between two shoulders of carved wood. Lovino straightens before demanding, “Why the hell did you come here?”

“I told you. It’s about Rome.”

“I heard you the first time. I’m not deaf.” His jaw rolls until it cracks underneath the pressure point of his ear. “Why the hell are you here about that bastard?”

“I heard what happened,” Roderich says, voice muffled but, nonetheless, furiously miffed.

“You heard nothing.”

“I heard something. It doesn’t matter I don’t know what took place with you and Antonio. And I don’t care, because you’re not my problem.”

“Great, then if you’re going to berate me for something you don’t care about, then leave already. You’re embarrassing to listen to.”

Something inaudible is muttered before Roderich clears his throat, attempting to rid the contempt in his voice. “Where’s Antonio?”

“Ass-deep in the fields,” he says. “What’s it to you?”

“This is a private matter.”

He wrinkles his nose. “Christ, just spill this useless shit before I have him chase you off with Antonio’s clippers.”

Roderich doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then he sighs. Lovino crosses his arms, knowing Roderich can most likely feel the buzzing anger slinking through him. He’d be surprised if it hadn’t already wafted through the door. “Romano, it’s not really…Well, it’s not informative. It’s just something to tell you.”

“What,” he says, biting out a harsh laugh, “did the bastard leave a will or something? Let me guess, does it have my brother’s name written all over it?”

“I know you’re still bitter about him, but it’s still no way to treat your grandfather.”

“He’s no one to me. I don’t give a shit about him or his worthless empire.”

A pause, and Lovino feels the scowl. “You’re not going to let me in, are you?”

“No.”

“Fine. Fine, then here.” A released breath. “I knew Rome. Though I was quite young, I still knew him, was a part of him, and I – ”

“I don’t want to hear about your nasty crush on him.” He glances out the window where a shirtless Antonio is still bent over at the waist, snipping tomato vines with fervor. He’s too far down the field to get a glimpse of anything distinct at the door. “Just get on with it already.”

“Look, Romano, I don’t care what you think. So just listen for once in your God-forbidden life.” Lovino bristles before Roderich says, “Rome, your grandfather, regretted leaving you. He really regretted it, alright? He told me himself, and I should have told you when I took your land. But I didn’t.”

He stays still for a moment. Then he says, “You’re lying.”

Roderich sighs. “I’m not, Romano.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I am not.”

“Shut up. Shut the fuck up right now, asshole. You’re lying. It’s not going to get you anywhere, for whatever the fuck you want from me.”

“ _Gott_ , I don’t want anything from you. What happened…I’m aware we can be hurt sometimes. Really hurt.”

“Get off my land, _right_ now!” he suddenly belts. His hand thrust against the door in a dull, splintering smack. Roderich’s shoes shuffle back. “I don’t give a damn about any of this, so leave!”

“I promised him I would tell you!” Roderich shouts. “He hadn’t wanted to leave you. He knew he messed up. He’d been angry and stupid when he said those things.”

He snarls deep in his throat before snatching the handle and throwing the door open. Roderich’s dark hair flutters from the gust of wind and his eyes widen. “You know nothing about anything _,_ ” he growls, jutting out his finger under the pointed chin and stepping forward far too close until Roderich teeters on the steps.

Roderich narrows his eyes, feet firmly in place. “He regrets it, and I promised him I’d tell you.”

“Nobody keeps promises!” His teeth grate. From the corner of his eye, Antonio whirls around. “And since I’m _not your problem_ , you should _go away_.”

Roderich stares at him, and the anger dissipates, melding into boredom. He leaves without a word, but Lovino knows what he’d wanted to say.

…

It’s the first snow of the century in Rome, and Antonio wordlessly crawls in bed with him.

He refuses to touch.

…

He hasn’t had the floors redone ever, now that he’s thought about it. The carpet has been rough since the beginning, though. Outside, the birds scamper up the Umbrella Pine towering over his checkered roof,

He sits silently for an hour, gazing into the aisles of tomatoes and the winding vines, and Antonio pads into the room and sits by his side before wordlessly tucking Gilbert’s note between them.

“What is this?” Antonio whispers after a bout of quiet chirps from the bluebird underneath the windowsill.

“I’m going back to bed,” Lovino says, and Antonio doesn’t stop him when he leaves.

…

“I don’t want to be here,” Lovino says.

Antonio replies, “It’s been months, Lovi. It’s beyond ridiculous now.”

“You wouldn’t have said that unless they hadn’t said those things.”

“ _Lovino_.” Antonio’s knuckles go white against the steering wheel. Lovino stares out of the window. People, his people, walk by, away from their cars in huddles of siblings and parents and neighborhood acquaintances, through the open doors of the cathedral.

“They won’t let us in,” he says, and, boneless, he presses his face to the chill of the glass. “They kicked me out years ago.”

He hears the inhale of breath before Antonio sighs. “Lovi, what did you do?”

“I don’t know.” His fingers shake as he tugs on his sleeves, releasing the too-tight cuffs. “I don’t know. We just can’t go in, okay?”

The air whistles through the vents, so quiet Lovino hadn’t noticed it before. He’s always blaring music or soaking in the news or distracted by the roar of tires. But sure enough, it whistles, almost erratically. Flecks of dust cartwheel into the air.

The driver’s seat creaks as Antonio leans his forehead on the steering wheel. Lovino waits for another sigh.

Antonio’s shoulders bob and his arms wrap around his head.

Lovino stares.

“You don’t tell me anything,” Antonio manages it say. It’s muffled through his arms, choked, shaken, foreign. “Why don’t you tell me _anything_?”

He’s scared.

…

“Is ‘Toni okay?” Feliciano asks, awake and chirping.

Lovino hears Antonio chatting to Ludwig about his garden. By God, Ludwig is getting good at dealing with annoyances. “He’s fine, Feli.”

“Are you sure?” Feliciano waves his glass of Barbaresco through the air, presumably trying to align the curve of the wine to the curve of the moon. “He doesn’t seem like himself.”

He tilts his chin, glances back to Antonio’s flapping hands nearly slap Ludwig in the face. “How so?”

“ _Ve_ , you can’t see it?”

He fists the wine bottle and pours more into his glass. “No.”

“I think he’s sad,” Feliciano says. It’s a soft sigh that flutters his curl across his pert nose. “Which is weird, because he’s never sad.”

He sips from his glass. “Mm.”

“And he’s tired,” he adds. “So tired. You can see it under his eyes. And when he looks at you.”

“You think he’s getting tired of me?”

“No, no!” Feliciano exclaims, and the rare line between his brows wrinkles. “That’s not what I meant! ‘Toni would never feel something like that. He’s too kind and loves you so much.”

“Ah. Really?”

“Really.”

He glances to his brother for a moment, a fleeting moment when he leans back with a small smile on his pink lips, eyes closed against the breeze. He knows what Ludwig sees. Something beautiful and resting even while he babbles and yelps and fervently talks about food. His eyes stray to the gold band around his finger.

“Feli,” he says, slowly. Feliciano’s eyes peek open, almost unnerving. “Have you ever…worried about…”

“What is it, brother?”

He shakes his head. “Just…have you ever felt…”

Feliciano nods in encouragement. He casts away the words again, running his tongue over his teeth. “How do you feel when you look at the potato bastard?”

Feliciano’s chin stutters before his lips pull back into a toothy grin, too much like Antonio and Francis. But his fingers immediately fly to his ring. “Oh, brother, I thought you’d never ask! It’s absolutely wonderful, even if he’s scary most of the time! But not a bad scary. If there is a good scary, that’s him! When I look at him, I get all fluttery and melty inside and it makes me want to make pasta.” He pauses. “ _Ve_ , lots and lots of pasta. With Luddy.”

He gags because he should. “That’s just fucking wonderful, Feli. Now I want to hammer nails into my ears.”

Feliciano reaches over arms of their chairs to set his palm over Lovino’s knuckles. “But it’s more than that,” he continues, leaning closer. “It’s one thing to admit you love someone over pasta, but it’s another to realize you almost feel wrong for loving them so much.”

Lovino pulls his hand away and settles them in his lap. Then he gulps down the rest of the wine. Feliciano giggles.

“But it’s nice,” Feliciano says, “because I know he feels the same.”

…

He thinks about Rome now. The satchel slung over his shoulder, the door, and the stones collapsing from the tips of sculptures. He thinks about how he’d begged, how he wandered through the forests for days. He thinks about Rome’s tired face when he’d.

He thinks about that night, the last time he’d apologized for anything.

…

He sits cross-legged at the foot of the grave, face swollen. Staring at the shadowed name, he folds his palms over his mouth and breathes against the chill slinking into his legs.

His hands fall.

“You’re fine,” he breathes. “Please forgive me.”

The vines wind loose around the stone.

…

He tells Antonio.

…

Antonio’s hands rove everywhere, everywhere he’d always wanted, and his voice rebounds in his ears with the questions, every word to make sure he nods. And God, he’s sure he’s drunk on life for the first time and is _scared_. He’s scared, scared, scared.

Tingles run up his spine. Antonio washes away every touch and every breath, clean, alive, lips working against him, the words dribbling down his chin. He’s confessing what he’d always wanted, what he’s wanted with him and how finally, _finally_ , he feels as if every wrong he’s made doesn’t matter.

“ _Lovi_ ,” Antonio gasps into his shoulder. “Lovi, my love, I – ”

He breaks off into sniffles and Lovino hugs him with his whole body, warm, tranquil, quiet.

…

He hardly let’s himself think about it now; it’s been a while.

On their birthday, amidst the balloons and pasta and alcohol, he pulls Ludwig aside.

“I don’t care what you say, you bastard,” he hisses. Ludwig presses himself closer to the wall, looking frightened. “You and my brother – I don’t care what you do or how you feel about each other, but if you break his heart again, I will make sure any chance of you fucking _anything_ will be nonexistent.”

Ludwig nods, clutching tighter to his pitcher.

His shoulders slump and he retracts the threatening finger from underneath Ludwig’s chin. “And, um, thanks.”

He knows his face is becoming heated, dipping under his collar and swamping his ears. Ludwig tilts his head once, blinking. “Oh.”

He growls, “That’s all you have to say?”

“Oh, _nein_ , sorry.” Ludwig shifts in place. “You’re welcome…for what exactly?”

“Shut the fuck up already!” He smacks Ludwig’s back, pushing him into the living room. Hiding in a tight hallway with the idiot is already making him want to vomit. “This is the only blessing you’ll get from me, you hear?”

…

“You haven’t looked in the mirror for a while,” Antonio says.

He pauses for a moment, sliding the towel up his leg and wrapping it around his waist. He glances up for a fleeting moment. “Put some clothes on,” he says.

Antonio chuckles, bare and smiling from the doorway. The damp mat squelches under his feet as he hovers in place, just how Lovino hates it.

“Pretty,” Antonio says and leans over to kiss his neck, reaching to his head to twirl his curl around his pointer finger. Lovino scowls.

“Fuck off,” he says, though it’s weak and the push to Antonio’s chest is nothing but pathetic. It’s too hot with the steam rolling into the bathroom from the open confines of the shower, heavy when it settles over his skin like sweat. Antonio’s middle finger hooks around his towel to pull him to the fogged mirror.

“Here,” Antonio holds himself up with the faucet to wipe the steam away. “Look in the mirror.”

“Bastard, whatever you’re playing at – ” Antonio tugs harder against the towel, and he flicks his eyes up. He hasn’t looked at himself in a while. Once he gets a glimpse, he strays away.

“Oh, come on, Lovi.” Antonio drags a finger up his stomach. “Just look.”

His hair is getting long, and he’s sure he’s lost weight. He’s always looked so small and angular next to Antonio; whose spine is always strong with glittering caramel skin that lightens during the winter and darkens into a farmer’s tan during the summer. But Lovino’s darker, olive-like, patched around his hips and stomach where he’d fall asleep in the sun with his shirt bunched. And his arms have always been skinny and extra weight clings to his lower stomach and inner thighs.

“What?” he snaps, thin-lipped. “What am I looking at?”

“You, of course,” Antonio answers softly. “You’re so beautiful. Sometimes I can’t even handle it!”

“Good Lord,” he says, but he’s stuck watching himself, his wide cheeks and sharp jawline, the scar trailing from his solar plexus to his side. A reminder of 1806.

“You think I’m beautiful?” he asks.

Antonio’s brows wrinkle. “Yes. Very.”

He sighs, “C’mon, bastard, let’s go for a walk.”

…

Roderich wakes to Book One of _Fasti_ , worn from Rome’s fingers, resting on his doorstep.

…

The funeral is short, sweet, and quiet in celebration for a child of God ascending into heaven, something no one is sure about but knows is sure he’ll go on in peace. The priest’s death was slow with pneumonia but not unwelcomed at age seventy-three.

Lovino feels nice in his revisited suit, shiny dress shoes, and tight-fitted waist coat. They’re early, just in case, and he sits in the car for a while before Antonio drags him out. Two volunteers are chatting by the doors.

Antonio greets them amicably, and Lovino looks away from the grey-haired, wrinkled woman as her eyes grow. Antonio – the Antonio that had once ripped limbs upon seeing two men together – takes his hand, smiles, and passes through the doors.

…

He looks back. Really, really looks back. When he was too young to even remember his name, when the memories blur slightly like an ill-preserved photograph. Once upon a time, there was Feliciano bundle in Rome’s left arm and he settled in his right, always trying to pick at the stubble on Rome’s chin. He remembers soaking his brother’s auburn hair and smoothing his skin with oils – his land had been dry back then – and fetching wood for fire. He hardly remembers, but it’s there, somewhere, even if he can’t see it clearly.

It was normal back then, what he is.

Maybe it had been Antonio, the Inquisition, the disease, the whispers. Maybe it had been the women, desire, thrill.

He still remembers the rats. And the fire. The blood.

…

The river buzzes with dragonflies, fluttering in cherry reds and oranges. The rocks square the water, and backs sweat from the dizzy sun. His curl gets caught in the branches, and he slips and lands in a patch of nettles. Antonio laughs so hard Lovino pushes him into the rippling stream.

There’s grape vines coiling by the trunk of a tree. Tadpoles’ race away from their steps, shoes squelching and ankles wet. Antonio picks flowers blooming along the bank.

“You’re just wasting them at this point,” Lovino grumbles, wiping the sheet of sweat off his forehead.

Antonio straightens, sniffs into the flowers, and visibly fights off a sneeze before thrusting the bouquet under his nose. “Smell them!”

He sniffs once, face sour. “They smell like flowers. And a shit ton of pollen. How are you not dead yet?”

“It isn’t that bad,” Antonio says, but Lovino’s close enough to see flecks of pollen settling on his nose. “Here, here.” He ignores Lovino’s swatting hands to thread a bluebell behind his ear. “There. So pretty.”

“God, why do you always do this?”

Antonio slaps his finger away from his hair and slips another flower behind his opposite ear. “Now they’re even.”

“Now I look like there’s gross plants growing out of my ears.” His hands stay at his sides while Antonio repositions his bangs away from his eye. Antonio’s wet jeans chill his knees. “Hey, bastard.”

“Yes?” Green eyes flick to him. To his right eye now that he concentrates. Usually people look at his nose, maybe between his brows, but never in the eye. He stares down at the sweat dampening Antonio’s thin white t-shirt.

“Can you…” He clears his throat. “Tell me, um.”

“Go on.”

“Can you – fuck, tell me what I look like?” There goes a crack in his pride – what’s left of it, anyway.

“Oh.” Antonio’s dimples appear. The strangeness doesn’t skip a beat in his words: “You look pretty. Very beautiful.”

He tilts his chin. “Like a girl?”

“No, no,” is the immediate answer, and his arm slips around his waist like a rope. “Like you. Pretty like you.” The smile slides downward. “Is that what you worry about?”

He scowls. “I don’t worry.”

“Well, if you don’t, I do.” Antonio takes his hand and presses the pad of his thumb to his bracelet’s pebble. “If you want to know,” he adds, “I think you look like an angel.”

He sputters. Heat swelters deep in his chest and spreads like a wildfire.

“You look like a tomato!” Antonio exclaims.

“Shut the fuck up!”

They scuffle. He knocks Antonio back into the river. But, Lovino can’t stay angry for long, so he lets Antonio return to picking flowers under the sunlight. The pebbles roll, the squirrels scuttle up the trees, he sweats in the heat and scuffs his shoes.

“Lovi!” Antonio bellows. He waves a pure white flower. “I found a lily!”

He can’t help but smile.

…

…

_end_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bonus scene coming up


	6. Drunk Rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bonus scene with btt

Women’s long, colorful skirts spiral heavy dust into the air as they sing and prance in song, men’s palms sloped against their waists and delicate fingers. Ankles are skinned, blisters are bled, and the wood is scuffed from boots and heels. Through the shriek of laughter, the strum of guitar strings, and trumpets fleeting notes, Antonio is lost in thought, and even more lost in alcohol.

A flamenco dancer flows like a river’s stream. She glances over once again, and his eyes stray away. The music is quiet in his ears, like he’s under water, holding onto the nearest pebble he can for any escape he can muster. But it isn’t an escape, because when he’s in thought, or lost in thought, he comes back to _one_ thought, and that one thought is _him_. It’s driving him _crazy_ , and –

“Dude, the walking rose is giving you the eye,” Gilbert says.

He breathes in the air of sweat and tangy booze and cigarettes – Lovino smells like cigarettes. He’s been meaning to talk to him about stopping. He complains about his voice enough, even though his voice is nice and rich and silky, slightly grating. As if he’d been winded since childhood. Almost breathy. How would he sound –

“ – oni! ‘Toniiiiii! Aye, Spain!” He glances up to see Gilbert frowning. “Dude, are you even listening?”

Antonio doesn’t realize someone has their arm around his waist until it’s gone. Fingers fingers brush the nape of his neck. “You seem troubled in the worst of ways tonight, _Antoine_ ,” Francis says soothingly. “Your smile is gone. Has something tragic happened?”

“He’s probably pissed because you won’t let him have any scotch,” Gilbert says.

Francis brings a hand to his chest. “It was from the Highlands! I mustn’t let anyone, especially one of my dearest friends, suffer through such a taste. And, also, you know how he gets when he’s _really_ intoxicated.”

“He’s not that bad.”

“You’re mistaken.”

Antonio peels his gaze away from his glass and his neck cricks from his hunched position. He rests his cheek in the crook of his elbow, sighing. From afar, the dancer continues to glance his way.

Gilbert and Francis look at each other. He can feel it.

“There _is_ something on your mind.” Intelligently said, Antonio thinks. Francis has always been quite the observer.

“No shit.” Gilbert pokes between Antonio’s shoulder blades. “Care to share your misery? That’s what we’re here for.”

Francis says, “Not _share_ , Gilbert. Listen.”

“Maybe I want to see you in misery,” Gilbert says. “It’d stop me from getting in trouble when you use Ludwig’s computer to write erotica. Not awesome, man.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but you’re the one who reads them.”

Antonio hands his glass to the bar-tender, who looks in need of sleep more than anyone here combined. The flamenco dancer, bright-eyed, continues glancing. Her hair is brown. He likes brown. Antonio knows lots of people with brown hair, like Elizabeta and Veneziano and himself and Lovino.

His eyes cast to his newly-filled glass. The tonic sloshes, but only one droplet slips down the rim. It reminds him of when he’d managed to make him laugh, when they’d been having a one-sided argument about the fruits in _Chinotto_ , where they grow, how much are produced. And he’d set a finger to the beige skin below the side of his right hip, made a joke about the heat. But he’d _laughed_. Just perfect. And so much to be said about it –

“ _Antoine_ , it’s rude to not answer!”

“Huh?” The first thing he’s said all night.

Gilbert waves a pale hand in front of his eyes. “Man, you look like someone sucked the life out of you.”

He blinks. “Oh. _Lo siento, amigos._ I hadn’t meant to be rude.”

“Never mind that!” Francis’ whips his gold hair over his shoulder. Antonio watches.

“’Toni, space out again and I’ll leave you to the blood wolf over there,” Gilbert says. His shoulders bobs to the side, where the flamenco dancer is gaining more attention. He leans into his arms. “ _Gott_ , you _really_ don’t want to talk to her. Do you want to make out with me again? It worked last time.”

“I should be asking!” Francis exclaims. “To touch Antonio’s beautiful lips with your own…it’s a blessing!” His arm winds over his waist again, and Antonio smiles. Francis is such a thoughtful friend.

Gilbert cackles and smacks his back, lurching him forward until the tip of his nose nudges his glass. “C’mon, ‘Toni, something obviously happened. Spill it already.”

He purses his lips. “I don’t know if I want to talk about it.”

Gilbert groans. “It can’t be that bad. If it was bad, you’d be crying your eyes out and Francis would try to get into your pants for comfort.” He smiles in what is supposed to be soft, but it’s rather a wolfish coil. “You can tell us anything. Even if it’s unawesome.”

Francis says, “It can’t be…‘unawesome’ as Gilbert ruefully says. Every word you say means the world, and we’re here to listen.”

Gilbert’s nose crinkles. “Don’t try to serenade him while he’s having a mid-life crisis.”

“Mid-life – _serenade_? I’m merely expressing our devotion and care towards him. Your reaction cannot be reassuring, Gilbert. It’s as if you – you’re just finding out Alfred and Ivan are running away to the sunset on a sexual escapade! Or something of the sort.”

“ _Ew_ , man, just. Did you have to – ”

“Lovi and I got into a fight,” Antonio says.

Gilbert tilts his neck to the side. “Oh. That’s what you were worried about?”

Antonio pouts.

“Don’t hurt his feelings, Gilbert!” Francis scowls, seat creaking as he hugs Antonio’s waist tighter. “Where did your emotional sensitivity go?”

“Well, it’s another fight,” Gilbert says. “You guys always fight.”

“It’s different this time.”

“You always say that.”

“And I’m sure he hates me.”

“You always say that, too.”

“And I probably went too far.”

A silence except for the drunken slurs and dispersing dancers. Francis hums, “Too far?”

Antonio picks at the bar’s splintering wood with his short fingernail. “I went to visit Veneziano today and we had lunch, _si_? I was really full – I hadn’t expected to be that full – and still was when Lovi was making dinner. It was Lasagna with chicken prosciutto, the real crispy stuff. It looked so delicious, and he looked happy making it for once, but I couldn’t eat or I would die! I told him, and he said, ‘Is there something wrong with my food, bastard?’ in his really angry voice, and he looked offended. So, I told him I went to eat with Veneziano, and he got real quiet and pushed me away when I tried to hug him and – and it was awful! Then he started yelling and kicked me out.”

Gilbert smacks his lips. “Yeah. That’s Lovi. And _why_ are you so upset over this?”

“He’s never kicked me out of the house before!”

Francis clears his throat. “I believe he has, _cher_.”

“Well, he’s never actually gotten me out of the house,” Antonio sighs, and his fingers twist together. “I mean, I just don’t understand why he’s so...so...”

“Annoying? Hard-headed? Stubborn? Insecure? As much of an idiot as you?” Gilbert shrugs. “Not sure.”

Antonio is hurt. “Gil...”

“Sorry, man, but it’s true.”

“Even so, it’s a serious topic,” Francis says. “Your little Romano, whom you love so much, is a child when it comes to things such as intimate relations. He’s never had any.”

“He’s had me,” Antonio says.

“Yes, but that’s when he was a child. Now, with a body such as his, it’s much, _much_ different...”

Antonio looks up from his arms, confused. “I don’t understand.”

Gilbert attempts to start a cat fight with Francis’ hair. “What he means is Lovino doesn’t know how to act around you. He obviously has a thing for you. He just isn’t sure what to do with those feelings.”

“But, I’m sure he hates me now.”

“I heard those same words when he was your henchman, _Antoine_ ,” Francis says fluidly. “It’s all the same. So unsure. So very unsure of everything.”

“You mean me?”

“No, Romano.”

“Oh.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “He’s hard to deal with sometimes,” he admits.

Gilbert snorts. “That’s rich comin’ from you.”

Francis’ hands smooth down his own white button-up dress shirt. “Continue.”

“I get angry with him,” he says. “I can’t help it. Sometimes what he says hurts.”

“Don’t let it hurt, ‘Toni,” Gilbert says. “All he says is child-shit, like ‘You stupid bastard!’ or ‘Are you brain-dead?’ or ‘If you touch any of my tomatoes I’ll castrate you!’ Meaningless shit like that.” His Italian accent is horrendous.

“Well, I don’t know,” he says slowly. “Sometimes I think what he says to me is meant for himself.”

“Ah, don’t be so surprised about that, _cher_ ,” Francis says. “Everyone knows Romano is insecure. That’s why he’s so angry all the time.”

“I think he’s angry because everyone says he is,” Antonio says.

“Ah, it doesn’t matter,” Gilbert says. “All that matters if those nasty, icky, gooey _feelings_ you have for him, right? Just go off that bullshit.”

“To sleep with him,” Francis whispers.

“No!” Gilbert continues the cat-fight with his hair. “What I’m saying is maybe next time you should show what you’re feeling. Even if you’re sad. You love him, don’t you?”

He nods. “More than he’ll ever know.”

“Then show him.”

“Even more?” It seems impossible.

“Yes, even more, you idiot. Were you not listening?”

“Be nice, Gilbert. He’s thinking.”

The dancer sways to a graceful halt, and by the time she reaches the bar, the golden-haired man and the strange albino are cheering as the handsome Spaniard scurries out the creaking door.

...

One week later, after serenading Lovino from a voice-cracking song that sucks out more than enough of his dignity, he decides it’s all worth it. The mystery and the hurt of not being able to know, to untuck the silent oath that keeps Lovino’s kissable lips silent. It’s worth it.

When Lovino smiles, every bloody rose, every stem riddled with thorns, tightens around his heart until he’s wounded with love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Bon Dieu – My God  
> Lo siento, amigos – I’m, sorry, friends


End file.
